Suddenly Megan let go and Rosanna fell forward, sucking air, noisily, through her nose. She smiled at him again, torturing him. ‘'How was that Jamie?' she said, innocently. 'Was that okay for a practice?'
He glared at her, chest heaving, nostrils flaring. ‘You twisted, fucking bitch. You’re going to rot in hell.’
‘Maybe. We all have to die sometime. But at least I’ll have had my fun. Speaking of which. It’s time for you to experience what Edmund experienced. What he wanted you to experience. Time to say goodbye, Jamie.'
Taking up the ends of the ribbon, she pulled them tight again. But this time, as Rosanna started choking again she played out the ends enough so she was able to step closer to the chair, while still keeping the ribbon taught. As she placed her booted foot up onto the edge of the chair, Carver saw her intention. She was going to make them watch each other die. He saw her thigh muscles tense and he just had time to stiffen himself, before she kicked the chair away and he fell.
The drop was less than twelve inches, but it was enough that it could have snapped his neck. That it didn’t, was because he’d made sure the knot was to the back of his neck, rather than the side. And by keeping himself rigid as he dropped, he let his upper body absorb some of the impact that his neck alone would otherwise have had to bear. But he could do nothing to prevent the rope tightening round his throat, choking off his air.
But even as he fought against the constricting tightness something happened that, had he not been fighting for air, would have grabbed his full attention.
A noise like a bomb going off rocked the room. At the same time, the front window crashed inwards, showering glass everywhere. Something large and black came through to land on the floor in a tangle of horizontal blinds and curtaining, rolling into the space between him and Megan.
Dangling on the end of the rope, legs kicking in desperate search for the purchase he knew wasn’t there but which was his only possible hope, Carver could only afford to be dimly aware of what was happening. He was already becoming light-headed. He knew he had less than twenty seconds before the blackness took him, after which… Still, he managed to register the look of astonishment on Megan Crane’s face as she stared at the object that rose from the midst of the debris, straightening up to reveal itself as a figure wearing black motorcycle gear and a full-face crash helmet.
Before she could react, the figure’s head went down and it charged forward like a bull in the ring to bury its head in her midriff with enough force that Carver heard the, ‘whoosh’ as the air was forced out of her lungs. At the same time the figure wrapped its arms round her and used the momentum to carry her backwards several feet to where they crashed into the sideboard. Megan screamed in pain as she took the brunt of the collision, before they both fell to the floor.
Carver was still with it enough to fear that Megan would recover first and in some way reassert herself. But even as she raised herself onto an elbow, the intruder rolled up onto its knees and kicked her arm away so she fell heavily again. As she lay on her back, the intruder dragged itself up to sit astride her chest. Taking hold of Megan’s shoulders, it pulled her up so her head was off the ground several inches.
By now Carver’s eyes were flickering so he could barely see. He didn’t need to. He knew what was going to happen. The figure leaned back, then snapped its head forward in a full-on butt that smashed the helmet into the middle of Megan’s face. There was a crunch of breaking cartilage and bone, and blood splashed. Then the figure let go of Megan’s shoulders so her head fell back to hit the floor with a crack and she lay still.
As the blackness closed in, the last thing Carver saw was the figure dragging itself off Megan Crane’s still form and turning towards him. Somewhere far away, a voice called, ‘HANG ON, JAMIE.’
There was a roaring in Carver’s ears and he began to panic as he realised his lungs were empty. He gasped for air, swallowed, gasped again, then it was there, rushing into the empty spaces, bringing him back. He spluttered, gasped one last time, and opened his eyes just as the lips that had been clamped over his disengaged and drew back. There was a film over his eyes so he couldn’t yet make out the features that hovered over him but he could hear the creak of the motorcycle leathers next to his ear and was aware of two things. One, he was on his back, on the floor. Two, he was alive. As his breathing steadied and some but not all the panic began to subside, his eyes focused enough for him to make out the face staring down at him.
To begin with, it was etched only with worry. But then, as he blinked himself back to consciousness the thin lips formed into a smile and Kayleigh Lee said, ‘You alright, Jamie?’
Epilogue
Carver stared across at the two women and the man facing him across the desk. Their expressions were variously, expectant, hopeful, challenging. They were waiting for him to tell them how, if he were an Area Commander, he would set about drafting his Annual Policing Plan. He knew what they wanted to hear. He’d seen the latest Home Office Memorandum on the subject, full of phrases such as, ‘Community Involvement’, ‘Police-Public Partnerships’, ‘Stakeholders’. But they weren’t going to hear them. Not from him. Not today. Instead, he was going to do what the voice inside his head had been telling him he should be doing during the thirty minutes he’d been answering their questions. What he wasn’t sure of, was how to tell them. But then he realised. It didn’t matter. However he put it, the result would be the same.
Fuck it.
He stood up.
The trio of senior officers and staff who comprised the Superintendent’s Promotion Interview Panel – more commonly known as, ‘The Board’ - rocked back in their chairs. It was not at all what they’d been expecting from the man they’d been waiting to hear impress them with his grasp of the subject. The reactions almost made Carver smile. The looks on their faces suggested they feared he might be about to attack them, or something. He didn’t. What he did do was make a point of grabbing eye-contact with each of them, before saying, ‘I’m sorry Ladies, Sir. I shouldn’t be here.’
As his words registered, their horror gave way to puzzled surprise. The middle of the three and the Board Chairman, Deputy Chief Constable, Derek Riley, was first to recover. Leaning forward, he pinned Carver with a look he read as, I hope you’re not serious.
‘I’m sorry? What do you mean, you shouldn’t be here?’
Carver took a deep breath. He was already resigned to whatever fallout his decision would trigger. ‘I mean that right now, I should be somewhere else. I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time.’
Riley checked the woman on his right. Alison Roebuck, ACC Operations, appeared to be still grappling with the unexpected turn the interview had taken. Her mouth was opening and closing, but no words came. To his left, Rachel Spencer, the force’s Human Resource Director was showing the first signs of concern. She would be thinking about whether they’d unwittingly done something to prejudice Carver’s chances, prompting him to throw in the towel. He returned his gaze to Carver.
‘Is it anything to do with what happened? Your voice, throat or anything?’
Carver shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with any of that.’ In truth, there were still days when, by the time he finished work, talking felt like someone was sticking pins through his windpipe. But it was nothing like as bad as it had been. There’d even been mornings recently when it felt close to normal.
‘I take it then, you know what you are doing?’
Caver nodded. ‘I do.’ He was tempted to say more, but resisted. Right now, he wasn’t really interested in trying to explain himself. ‘If you’ll excuse me?’ Turning, he headed for the door.
As he grasped the handle, Riley called, ‘Mr Carver.’
Carver turned. He couldn’t read the look on his DCC’s face. Riley had a reputation for being fair, but ruthless when he needed to be.
‘You’re sure about this?’
Carver met the scrutinising gaze. ‘Yes.’
Riley gave it a moment, then said, ‘In case
you were wondering, you were doing alright.’
Carver nodded an acknowledgement, but said nothing. What happened next was up to them. They would either understand, or they wouldn’t. As he left the room he didn’t look back, nor did he linger outside to hear what he might pick up. He could imagine. Walking out on a Promotion Board, particularly when it’s going well, would be seen as evidence of either a loose screw, a career death-wish, or both. Carver thought that neither applied in his case, though he could be wrong.
As he headed down the corridor that would take him to the back stairs and a hopefully low-key exit from Headquarters, he wondered how long it would be before his phone started ringing. He needed to get his calls in first.
Five minutes later, he drove left out of the main gates, towards Chester. He travelled less than two miles before turning off onto the car park of the Shrewsbury Arms and parking at the back. He dug out his mobile.
Rosanna was first. ‘How did it go?’ she said. Even through the hoarse croak, he could hear the eagerness in her voice. It made him feel guilty. She deserved better.
‘Let’s put it this way, I don’t think they’ll be fitting me for a uniform any time soon.’ Actually, that could be exactly what will happen.
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Mmm, I’ll tell you later. It was… interesting.’
There was a pause. And she sounded suspicious when she said, ‘What have you done?’
He sighed. ‘Like I said. Later.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes. There’s just some things I need to do, then I’ll be coming home. I’ll tell you about it then.’
‘So we won’t be opening the champagne?’
‘We might, if you’re allowed. What did the consultant say?’
‘He said the x-ray shows definite signs of improvement. He said he thinks the damage may not be permanent, but I have to rest my voice for another month then they will do another X-Ray.’
‘That’s good.’
‘That they’ll do another X-ray?’
‘That you can’t talk for a month.’
As she reverted to her native language and he heard the beginnings of the expletives she reserved just for him, he said, ‘Speak later,’ and hung up.
He rang another number. A woman answered. They spoke briefly, agreed a time. He rang off, got on the road again. He called Jess on hands-free.
She tried to sound upbeat. ‘How did it go?’
The word’s not out yet then.
For a second, he thought about dodging it, but then remembered. Whatever their differences rank-wise, she was the nearest thing he’d had to a real partner for a long time. He took a deep breath. ‘You’ll hear soon. They’ll say I bottled it.’
She sucked air. ‘Did you?’
‘No. I walked.’
‘You what?’
‘I’ll explain when I see you.’
‘Hmm. Maybe you don’t need to. I can probably guess.’
‘Good. That helps. How was the case meeting?’
‘Okay, I think. Everyone seems happy enough. The Duke reckons its coming together.'
‘And Craig?’
‘He’s got his head round most of it. I help him out now and then.’
‘I can imagine.’
Even now, three weeks after, Carver still wasn’t sure how he felt being replaced as Case Officer in the case of The Crown versus Megan Crane. He understood the reasoning. The fact that everything revolved, in some way, around him, raised obvious conflict of interest issues. The defence would have a field day if it came to trial with him still at the helm. But he was surprised just how far he’d been cut out of things, and by The Duke of all people. He had nothing against his replacement. He and Craig McDonagh had come up through CID together. Not friends, exactly, but solid colleagues, McDonagh was an able investigator. But he didn’t know the territory like Carver, and in his idle moments he worried what his replacement might be missing. But that was where Jess came in. And when it came to the trial, he would have plenty of opportunities to make sure everything got laid out the way it should. Especially the stuff about Angie. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had nothing to do.
‘What about Merfyn David? What’s his take on it?’ Merfyn David, QC, was lead Counsel for the prosecution. He’d worked Carver’s cases before. Their respect was mutual.
‘He wants to talk to you. He said he’d welcome-’ Jess affected a passable Welsh accent. ‘“Some, clarrr-if-ic-ation over a couple of matters.”’
Carver allowed himself a half smile. ‘Right.’
‘One thing. He’s not going to pursue the little fingers angle.’
‘He’s not?’
‘Too remote, he reckons.’
Carver wasn’t altogether surprised. He’d wondered himself if, come the trial, the trial judge might rule it spurious.
It was during the one follow-up interview with Megan Crane he’d managed to get to sit in on before they barred him, when he’d spotted the significance of Corinne Anderson’s bent-over little fingers. As she’d sat alongside her solicitor, saying nothing to every question McDonagh put to her, while all the time giving Carver the Mona Lisa smile he already knew would haunt him the rest of his life, he noticed her hands, resting flat on the table. Both of her little fingers were deformed. Kinked, so they wouldn’t lie flat, the left one quite markedly. He cursed himself for not noticing before, but then reasoned, it only showed when her hand rested on a flat surface. And the only real chance he’d had was the night her hand found its way onto his thigh - and he’d had other things on his mind at the time. Perhaps, if he’d spent more time with her, he might have seen it sooner and things would have been different. Then again, things might have been different in ways he didn’t want to think about. He still saw it as a potential link in the evidence chain. But Merfyn David was no fool, and if he thought otherwise... We’ll see, Carver thought.
‘One other thing,’ Jess said.
‘Go on.’
‘After the meeting, Merfyn pulled me aside. He wanted to know how I think you’ll hold up in the box.’
‘And you said?’
‘You won’t have a problem.’
‘Right.’
She waited, giving him the opportunity to say more. He didn’t.
‘So what will you do? About the Board thing, I mean?’
‘Nothing. There’s more important stuff to worry about.’
‘Like…?’
‘Like… I’ll tell you when I see you.’
‘When will that be?’
He thought about it.
‘Soon.’
‘You’re a mine of information.’
‘I know. Watch my back Jess.’
‘I will. And Jamie?’
‘Yes?’
‘When it all starts… I mean… If you need someone to talk to...?’
‘Thanks. I’ll remember that.’ He hung up. He knew what she’d meant. They’d spoken about it.
The past week or so, the media frenzy that had been running flat out since that night had calmed, a little. His last, direct approach from the press had been over a week ago, and the tabloids had finally stopped speculating about what had actually happened. But once the trial started, it would begin again. One thing was already clear. Some media elements were lining up to use his past profile as a launch-pad for what they would no-doubt seek to portray as another instalment in the ‘exciting career’ of - as one had, horrifically, put it – ‘Britain’s foremost, serial-sex-crime detective’. It made him sick, and he’d told the Force’s Marketing Manager he wanted no part in it, even if the Chief did see it as an opportunity to present the force more positively than in most of the stories showing up in the press these days. He still couldn’t believe how they’d talked about it at the ‘Media Strategy’ meeting he’d attended with The Duke. At one point he’d wondered if they were discussing some Hollywood film script. He even called a time-out to remind them that people had actually died and others – Rosanna, Tracy, himse
lf? - had been damaged by the events surrounding what he only ever heard referred to now as, ‘The Worshipper Murders’. It made little difference.
The trouble was, only he knew the truth. That mistakes had been made. That some on the team had acted unprofessionally, putting themselves and others, at risk. That far from a professional investigation leading to the unmasking of the killer, the investigators had become ‘involved’. With disastrous consequences. And what will that do to their precious, ‘Media Strategy’ if it comes out? No, when it comes out.
It wasn’t all.
Only now, after detailed analysis of her banking and phone records – those they knew about – and especially the explosive contents of the filing cabinet from her cellar-office, was it becoming clear just how extensive Megan Crane’s network of ‘friends’ really was. It included people in positions of power, and authority. People with money. People whose interests lay in not having their unconventional leanings aired in public. Which was why someone, maybe more than one, had arranged for Butler’s, the most renowned Chambers in Criminal Practice, to provide silk for Megan Crane. So that matters other than the salacious details of the murders and her lifestyle, may be on offer to slake the media’s unquenchable thirst. Even now, Solicitor’s Enquiring Agents, - retired detectives mostly– where digging into every aspect of the case. Sniffing out things that might divert a Jury’s – and the press’s – attention, away from those who might otherwise find themselves in the spotlight. And Jamie Carver was their number one target.
Lawyers can sometimes be fickle, but they’re not stupid. No DCI worth his salt could be as clean as the way the media had, up to now, presented Carver. He had to have made mistakes. He’d already had a telephone call from a friend on the Manchester Evening News telling him that someone was enquiring about a key witness in the Edmund Hart case. Someone who might have gotten involved with one of the investigators. And if they knew that then… He stopped, recognising the signs. Sleep was hard enough to come by as it was. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the diverting shadows.
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